Body Works exhibit, Franklin Institute, Philadelphia, circa
In the peripheral vision of my soul
they gawk at my plasticized muscles
as if Iím some frozen sideshow ghoul.
They donít see my spiritual tussles,
they donít see who I really was.
All they see is bone and sinew
stretched and contorted in the cause
of science, sacrificing a nameless few
to this plexiglass purgatory on display,
stripped of our former humanity
until our naked novelty begins to fray.
Then, at last, weíll recover some dignity
hidden in shipping crates where, we trust,
we'll crumble slowly into dust.
If you have any comments on this poem, Eric Chiles would be
pleased to hear from you.